Lorem Corde Meo
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: John believes in Sherlock, even when no one else does. Just because he's been gone for three years doesn't mean that's changed. SOS compatible, no spoilers. Special Guest Star: Mortimer W. Holmes. AU after TGG.


Lorem Corde Meo

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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When Mycroft called John at two in the morning, only seven days since Sherlock had traipsed off to Switzerland without him, he knew exactly what the elder Holmes was going to say.

Mycroft's voice was shaking, and his words were crisp and brittle like autumn leaves underfoot, rustling over the phone line on a chilled breeze. That must have been why his breath caught in his throat, why a shiver ran up his spine and into his brain, frosting it over and making it hard to think.

Mycroft explained what happened, how Sherlock and Moriarty had tumbled from Reichenbach Falls, how no bodies were found, no evidence that anyone survived. He told John that he had forced his search parties to scour the whole of Switzerland for four days for any sign that Sherlock had survived. He informed John that there was no point to continue the search. He said that Sherlock was dead.

John laughed.

:::

Two months after Sherlock left for Switzerland, John was propositioned by a man in a bar.

He was a beautiful man, all square jaw and swept-back hair, and he had dazzling blue eyes like Carribean seas. His name was Andrew, he said, and his teeth gleamed when he smiled.

John smiled back, setting down his beer to display his left hand. Andrew scrutinized the silver band, inlaid with only a tiny ruby. He explained that it was his husband's birthstone, and Andrew grinned ruefully. He told John that it was a shame, that he was a gorgeous man, that he hoped his husband took care of him.

If John's smile slipped, it was only a tiny bit. Sherlock did take care of him, would take care of him again as soon as he came home. John was certain of it.

:::

It was surprising to run into Sarah again. He hadn't seen her since he'd left the surgery to teach as St. Bart's. She seemed just as startled to run into him, but that was understandable, since he was standing in the feminine products aisle. He must have wandered off into his own head again - it happened a lot these days, though less frequently after half a year had gone by with no word from Sherlock.

She asked about John's detective, of course, curious about the man who had stolen John from her. She'd heard on the news that he'd disappeared, and that made John frown. Surely people didn't actually believe Sherlock was dead. It was ludicrous.

But then, Sherlock must have wanted people to think he was dead. John had worked that much out only minutes after Mycroft's call. It was a clever ploy, John thought to himself, to keep Moriarty's henchmen from exacting revenge.

He didn't want to undo all of Sherlock's hard work, but he could tell that Sarah wasn't convinced. She kept looking at him oddly, as though he was speaking gibberish. After bidding him a hasty farewell, she scurried away, and John picked up a box of sanitary napkins for that experiment Sherlock hadn't been able to start before his trip. He would be pleasantly surprised when he came home to find that John had remembered.

John smiled, whistling as he went to check out.

:::

Lestrade came to call on the first anniversary of Sherlock's departure.

John was dusting when he heard the man's footsteps on the stairs, humming a jaunty tune as he polished up the skull on the mantelpiece.

"There you go, Mort, all clean," he murmured with a silly grin.

Lestrade cleared his throat, looking very uncomfortable. It was probably because John was talking to a skull - that tended to make people a bit uneasy - so John set Mort back down and turned to run the cloth lovingly over Sherlock's violin case.

The DI had made a point to visit once a month after Sherlock disappeared. It was nice to think that he had a friend to talk to, but Lestrade wasn't much of a talker lately, not since they had first discussed the circumstances behind Sherlock's vanishing act.

Lestrade had bought what Mycroft was selling, all that rubbish about Sherlock being dead. When John had laughed in his face, sloshing his pint all over the table, Lestrade had tactfully declined to bring the detective up ever again. He still visited, asked John out for a drink so they could watch a game or play pool. They talked about cases, about football and good food and Lestrade's children. Mostly, though, they sat in silence, and John didn't mind at all.

He was getting very used to it.

:::

Mrs. Hudson liked to make dinner for John when he came home from a long day. She said it did him no good to starve himself, which confused the doctor. He'd never starved himself in his life, and he had no reason to do so now. He didn't have nearly the appetite he used to, but he attributed that to missing his husband dearly.

A year and a half had gone by, and it was steak and kidney pie for dinner. Mrs. Hudson sat across from him, which she didn't usually do, but she was looking tired and sad, so John had asked her to stay and eat with him. When he mentioned that it got a bit dull, eating alone, her face had twisted up, and she'd looked at him with eyes that glittered oddly.

He laughed about how Sherlock would be so put out to find all his experiments cleared from the table, and Mrs. Hudson dropped her fork with a clang. John didn't like how pale she had gotten, and refrained from mentioning Sherlock again.

She must have been missing him, too.

:::

Two years after he'd last heard from Sherlock, John was learning to play piano.

There wasn't any real reason behind it. He had learned a bit when he was a boy, and had always loved to hear him mother play. There was something like magic in music, tendrils that wrapped around you memories, around your heart, and tugged wonderfully. He had believed in magic when he was small, but when he'd gotten older and tougher and louder, he'd stopped listening.

It reminded him of Sherlock's violin, of how the younger man had made him listen again. How he'd made John, tired, sad, listless John, believe in magic again. The resonant tones of Sherlock's magic had wrapped themselves around every bit of John's heart and soul. They were mahogany and smelled of growing things, felt like silk sheets and glowed like candles. John loved basking in the decadant vibrations of Sherlock's magic.

He wondered if Sherlock would feel the same, if the melodies John drew from the piano would bind him as tightly to John as John was to him. He practised every day, over and over, all the songs he knew his beloved was fond of, anxious to be good enough to play them for him.

John hoped Sherlock would come home soon.

:::

It had been a tiring day at work, but John was eager to return home. He'd managed to set up one of Sherlock's experiments, going over his husband's notes obsessively until he was certain he had it right. He had spent the last month taking notes in as much detail as possible. Today was the last day, and John was certain that Sherlock's hypothesis was going to be proven correct.

After he'd changed and donned his gloves, John pulled the ice cream tub from the refrigerator and peeld back the lid. The smell of putrefying human flesh filled his nostrils, and he wrinkled his nose a bit. How Sherlock put up with it, John didn't know. Blood and bile and mucus were one thing, but no one liked the scent of a human face liquifying in apple cider vinegar.

Nothing was too trivial for John to write down. He wasn't sure what data Sherlock would need and what was irrelevant, so he scrawled everything in the little notebook he'd bought, his writing smudged and cramped in his eagerness. It wasn't something he'd like to do constantly, but he could understand why his husband loved to do this - the rush of discovery was delightful and invigorating.

And John had been right that Sherlock had been right, and he was thrilled to write down his conclusions, picturing the look on Sherlock's face when he read it. Two years and six months was far too long to be away from his beloved, but all the things he'd have to show him would help make up for it.

He couldn't wait to see Sherlock again. His husband was going to be so pleased.

:::

No one had visited John in a long time, not even Mrs. Hudson. They were all so uncomfortable, and John knew why.

They thought he was crazy. They thought he was living in a fantasy. They thought Sherlock was dead.

Never before had John understood so clearly why Sherlock got frustrated with everyone around him. Did everyone seem so unobservant, so dull, so unable to perceive the obvious? Of _course_ Sherlock wasn't dead. If he was, John would know. Really.

But no one else understood it. No one else believed in Sherlock as deeply and unconditionally as John did, not even Mycroft. To them, John was coming unhinged, burying himself in this fallacy that Sherlock would be coming home any day. They thought that after three years, John should have accepted that Sherlock was gone, and that he should be moving on. They had seen his inability to accept this so-called fact as grieving at first, then irrationality, then insanity. It made them uncomfortable, so they stayed away.

It was laughable, really. John hadn't bothered to grieve for Sherlock, beyond pining a bit because the man just wouldn't come home. He wasn't being irrational at all, waiting faithfully for his husband to return, as he knew the detective would, as soon as he was able. He wasn't insane because he had faith in Sherlock; John had seen insanity, it was ugly and heartbreaking. His love for Sherlock was anything but.

He was waiting. He had been waiting for three years, and John knew he wouldn't be waiting much longer. Sherlock would be home soon, and then he could laugh in their stunned faces and shout 'I told you so' to his heart's content.

:::

Exactly three years and one week from the moment John had said goodbye to Sherlock, he sat up in their bed and stretched. He had the day off; he'd requested it. He had looked forward to sleeping in, but as soon as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he knew there would be no sleeping in for him.

The flat was eerily silent when John walked into the living room. Sherlock looked up from his position sprawled out on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his forehead. Gleaming bluegreengold eyes caught his, and John felt as though the whole world had fallen away. A waterfall roared in his ears, and for a moment, he struggled to draw a breath. Then Sherlock smiled.

"We're out of milk again. Really, John, it's a wonder you're able to manage without me."

John rolled his eyes and moved across the room, flopping over onto Sherlock (who grunted and scowled unconvincingly) and wriggled until they were nose to nose. Sherlock automatically wrapped his arms around John, holding him tighter than usual, but he didn't mind at all. Burying his fingers in Sherlock's thick curls, John kissed him on the nose fondly.

"Buy your own damned milk," he said. Then, because Sherlock was pouting at him and because he wanted to kiss the man senseless and drag him to bed and not leave their room for the next three years, he relented.

"I missed you. I've been waiting ages, Sherlock. You took forever," he whined, wriggling some more, then again because he loved the breathy gasp Sherlock made. He understood, because his own skin felt so very sensitive, and he felt like every part of him would burst into flames as soon as Sherlock touched him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, kissing John on the forehead. "I missed you, too."

They stayed like that for hours, until John had rememorized the feel of Sherlock's arms around him and pulled the tired man to his feet and into the bedroom.

They had a lot of time to make up for.

:::

End.

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A/N - To all those who would have preferred that I finish Chapter Eight of The Science Of Seduction, I can only apologize. This needed to be written.

I've read a lot of fics along the lines of 'Sherlock's presumed dead for three years, what happened to John during that time?' They're always pretty angsty, which is awesome, but I don't remember the last one I read where John doesn't believe Sherlock's dead. I'm sure they're out there, tho, and I wanted to contribute. =3

I do plan on someday writing a companion piece to this. If anyone would be interested in reading about Sherlock's thoughts during this period, let me know. In the meantime, I shall struggle on with The Science Of Seduction. Chapter Eight is on its way, I promise! I'm just...not sure when.

The title, 'Lorem Corde Meo', translates (I think, I hope) to 'Waiting For My Heart'. I'm terrible at Latin, so if it's wrong, let me know. I apologize in advance.

The song for this story is 'Hymn To Hope' by Secret Garden. Srsly, ppl, their music is gorgeous. Check it out.

Review, review, review! It makes John happy!

Peace.

Akiko


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